Best Consonants Poems
When tuscan tunes of twilight,
cascade as clementine confetti,
She searches for secret silhouettes,
swirling to the symphony
of sunflower serenades.
In the midst of faded fields,
marigold memories crawl back,
refraining yesterday’s
tangerine dreams.
Swans glide in
sullen grace,
illustrating a saffron
backdrop from
sweet sighs of
fauna’s concerto.
Harmony of melodies
is the idyllic essence
of dulcet beginnings.
A plethora of
prewritten words
soar as passionate notes,
harvested through
hypnotic crescendos,
emanating amber toned scales,
whilst she sways below
apricot streaked skylines,
adorned in champagne
hued consonants,
synchronizing dandelion
desires,
fluttering beyond
darkness that floats,
as lyrical lines vibrate,
and ascend to
euphonious heights,
where bronze keys of
her mellifluous heart,
evolve from a tapestry
of twinkling tenors.
Her muse mimics
scentless petals.
There’s no wrong interval,
when performing in a world,
where rays of
honeyed glow drift,
veiling the rhythm,
between bleeding
dusk and dawn.
Changing chords remain
oblivious,
to the pulsating pain,
as her perfectly
manicured fingers lift.
The hunter’s moon
too refuses to see,
how her heart no
longer is made of flowers,
but nostalgic ferns
and leafless forests,
that twist and turn—
wilting away to
songs of sorrow.
But there’s a maestro
with a pristine prologue.
He understands her mind
blisters when colors tumble.
How her fragility has
been sleeping on
weathered pansies.
He guides her to
softly press the
porcelain frame of
piano keys,
playing the prelude
to a classical sonata,
lost in the maple waves
of wind-blown whispers.
Her oak leaf twirls and
sows duets
of sanguine tomorrows,
pitching lines within
veins rhymed in vain.
Birds of paradise croon
to orchestrated
hope and love,
while a palette of sounds
piercingly rise to unravel
a synopsis for healing.
punctuation walks
on eggshells
when
words like
water
falls
flow into nothingness,
soaked in syrupy syllables
behind veiled vowels
assonance is the twin of
consonance as
a e i o u
are an
unfinished bridge
without connection
of consonants
weaved together
in visible
unspoken actions
woven without words
just like rhythmic meter
of thunder with lightning
like a lost refrain in a poem
assembled with enjambment
metaphorical reflections of a
reflective metaphor portray a
m i r a g e less sincere than silence
value blossoms
when the body adopts
a gospel language
where speech
is unnecessary
unless expressed
through true
dialects of conduct
without the use of
lyrical accessories.
Ink spills purposely on paper
forming letters of certain alphabets
to vowels and consonants.
Though speechless, one puts
forth effort to enunciate and
pronounce aloud the syllables
carefully to articulate loves interest.
Do you
want to
be my
one
and
only
Love Interest?
Pace INK-U-SCRIPT
03-07-13
It was tantalizing, sweet completion
Lines of blue ink filling white space
Tastes of emotions, colors of consonants
Music of vowels, syllables singing
To create, and satiate
Then, time thinned
Responsibility and stress stepped in
Poetry, after all, does not pay the bills
Stop cloud watching and become an adult
They said, and they were right
So I packed her away, that silly girl
relegated to the dusty back room of memory
Gray and wilted, foolish scribblings
Nobody cared about anymore
Years, decades of feigned disinterest
Begins to dissolve in rediscovering
The flash of joy in composing
Ignited by a song-writing friend
Who dared encouragement
Steps sluggish, atrophied, but there
Saved in muscle memory
I hungered for nourishment, for balance
On unsteady limbs - I wanted my silly girl back
And I have her, revived on Soup from
My poetry sisters and brothers
Now, I am gaining
The reach of my wings
Soaring over cities of sonnets
Neighborhoods of roundels and rispettos
A haiku hamlet, an acrostic alleyway
Kingdoms of pantoums and villanelles
To the unfenced openness
Of free verse
I am still the bedrock of me
Stretching to climb taller trees.
2/23/19
I know you are sensitive,
not sentimental,
but it has been four years,
that's one thousand
four hundred and sixty one days,
since enlightened tides kissed
those island shores.
My soul was wrapped in worn ribbons,
mourning my misplaced muse
and you were a whispering rose,
wilting at the slightest touch.
Bleeding 3am vents,
with conflicting vowels and consonants,
the sirens of your ink screamed
for a silent troubadour to
compose cathartic bloodstreams -
but life is not as pretty as petals and poetry.
A mistress to moonlight,
I found you crying at an apathetic moon,
so I cracked open your volcanic cocoon,
to open your eyes to cinnamon
and persimmon horizons -
now you float like an empyrean butterfly.
I hope you soar forever and know
I could have written for you,
as many verses as you have seen stars,
but we cannot cultivate in fields of unfairness,
where only dead blooms now decompose,
as you keep ignoring Cupid's cries.
Despite contradicting crossroads,
my heart is deep rooted
in wayfarer's wisdom,
knowing when there are no more beats -
you will honour me with a
requiem for an artist.
Simple Musings
Ashes to Ashes
Smoke
rises in the distance.
The boxcar
rocks,
rocks,
rocks;
stones
are placed along the ties.
Were they placed by Chance
or left
as gently as Kaddish.
I lift my hands in the darkness;
the light of the knothole
lights the tips of my fingers like Shabbat candles,
and I cover my eyes.
I can smell them,
the names
put in the furnace.
Silence screams out of the smoke stacks
as vowels burn away
as consonants try to escape the fire, flee
up the concrete throat and out
into the sky
escaping the camp disguised in grey coats of ash,
at last,
as winter covers the mirrors
of the lakes with ice.
Contest: Last Train to Auschwitz
Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
Alliteration always awesome
Ballad beyond barnyard basics
Crystalline calls careful consonants,
Diamante delivers deeply
Enthusiasm excites eager ears,
Fanciful frolicking faerie
Generously gives grateful glee
Hyping haiku to heavenly heights,
Imagery and imagination
Jubilantly jumping joyfully,
Kimo kindles king-sized kingpin,
Lamenting the lily-livered lunacy
Momentous muse modulates melody,
Necromancer normalizes Neverland,
Opulent Opalescent orchestras opt
To pollute poetry previously pristine.
Quixotic quorum of questioners
Respond and recover rhymes rapidly
Serendipitous sentimentality
Turns timely tanka traitorously toward
Unmistakably understated Uranus,
Vindicating verses vilifying Vashti.
Whacking wannish warblers west,
‘Xaggerating ‘Xtemperaneous X’tra special poems
Yet yielding a yeomanly yearning toward
A zealous zany zingaroo of zest.
"Sanskrit"
Tears like pearls of wisdom
crystal diamonds slip salty cool
hour glass down cheeks to lips
purse of gold unzipped
forms exposed vowels and consonants
in the hostage pool
forming ebullient echo words
on moist glowing cupid’s bow
a ripe plumb kissed, then, juicy silence
words tightly bound
all thoughts and unnecessary sounds
cuffed, suspended
tongue licks locked lips
passing key portal bit
softly sparking electric tangent
speaks of sibilant semblance
sensation solitary succulent
seeking sensual sanguine silence
hands between pages
two legs of a chapter, verses read
scent of a journey
puzzles kept as secrets
a treat to be unwoven, deciphered
warm skinned, unknown, token
slippery lover's notes
fingers following the lines
along wet Sanskrit
heart of body
tantric
broached
free
never owned
hot wired
removed
yet responding;
conduit opening
(LadyLabyrinth / 2021)
"I Like It" / Moby
https://youtu.be/TdXLNHWmurM
http://jayarava.blogspot.com/2013/02/emptiness-for-beginners.html
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Two_truths_doctrine
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Heart_Sutra
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tantra
I listen to the young men
in their black turtlenecks
who spit their consonants forcefully
in cryptic metaphors
about the state of the world.
Their work makes me think.
I guess this means it is good.
But I will never be
one of the edgy poets.
The sight of a bare tree
tugs on my soul,
and the stones whisper to me,
and I must write
about the lonely winter rain
and the cherry blossoms –
in softer voice,
simpler words,
a few lines to sketch
the small, quiet wonders
I so love.
April 23, 2017
“Let yourself be silently drawn by the strange pull of what you really love. It will not lead you astray.” Rumi
Life can be an incomplete glossary,
speech a haunting ghost,
in search of a perspicuous poem -
to express unspoken thoughts.
I remember when she said,
"Cue me poetry"
So, I became her perpetual poet,
engraving sweet soulful words
upon her bitter spiritless lips.
Fate had turned her into the Queen of Darkness,
but my heart glows in the dark.
Together we illuminated like a trillion twinkling stars,
outshining the enigmatic effervescent moon.
Her essence infused a refreshing presence,
like morning sunshine after a night of rain.
Slowly she became a pilgrim of my poetry,
and I, a sojourner lost within her soul.
As I wandered through her secret chapters,
my word weaving revealed her book of scars,
each drop of ink resembling her tepid tears.
Each vexatious verse purified through
a catalyst of catharsis, healed her wounds.
We are like quill and scribe,
vowels complimenting consonants,
completing an impeccable vocabulary -
without her there is no muse.
When the river of poetry has dried
Like parched clouds waiting for warmth
When the rain beats down on emptiness
The god of rain demands to be penned
I pour myself a glass of wet wine
An offering to Bacchus to entreat
My muse, but she ain’t listening
Her torrent of words fall on deaf ears
I light two cigarettes as an offering
My sooty lungs are a poor sacrifice
Still my muse refuses to talk sense
The god of ash will not spill beans
Poetry has dried, but I am faithful
I’ll cup my hand in the pouring rain
I’ll bind dissonant words like cold fusion
Marry consonants and vowels online
Anything to rise above the mundane
I offer sooty words to show I’m here
Do poets online get drenched like me
Stumbling in the rain posting virtually?
My eucharist is dipped in whine now
Comments become sacramental breads
Poetry is a vice best felt in the rain
Washed clean by constant wringing
So I’ve made a poem out of rain
Turned water to prose like Jesus
I’m on Golgotha with Him every day
Extolling in the driving storm
Both of us bleeding or crying
Eli eli lama sabachthani?
God, my gods why have you
You abandoned me?
You must know it's just a cross
It's me counting rain drops
When the parched clouds part
Let the sunshine be though hard
Let's make love with our souls
to the point
we set our bodies ablaze
You can be my favorite fan
who stokes that
internal flame
Sometimes I swear
I'm going through the change
I'd trade all my masculinity
to taste the traces
of your feminity
Every thought
burns with so much insanity
that when we
connect dots
we find clarity
I took a moment and
removed my pen top
and messed around
and seduced myself
flirting with metaphors.
All I need is a few
consonants and
one fill in the blank
and I'll make every four
letter word feel like fate
My voice is a hollow vessel
where words spiral down
into a whirling dust storm
and exit dirty and unwanted
as if riding on the hooks
of some God-forsaken 120 degree desert.
No specific value has ever been
assigned to the words
that stick in my throat
and always leave like
a mumbled mishmash-
a jar of miscellaneous buttons
with threads pieces
hanging on in disbelief.
A lone vowel has gone off
like a disciplined child-
her pink mary jane's scruffing
the barren sidewalk with utter disdain.
Consonants drift and drown
into a muddled pond
overgrown with hanging algae.
What is Love?
MAN I don't know!
I mean girls say it to me all the time, but I just blow off their emotions like smoke.
What is Love?
MAN I don't know!
I mean when you prove it to me the caterpillar I call my intestines goes into their Cocoon
And metamorphoses into a butterfly that in my stomach flies.
It has me feeling like a buffoon.
But I've always been misperceived by Love.
The Misperception of an ******** has me heading in the Wrong Direction.
Now I'm moving with Aggression, and Repenting for my Transgressions.
Praying for my Acceptance back into these once Promised Heavens.
And then my Phone Rings.
Hello?
The voice says, "Babe I'm Pregnant."
Damn.
How can I Accept the Present of a Baby when Love isn't even in our Presence?
All from a single 4 Letter Word with 2 Vowels and 2 Consonants.
Falsely Used
Wrongly Accused
And Considerably Abused
It is here.
It is now.
It is
Because
These tantric dialects
Come
Undone
I taste the solstice of gray.
Foggy, silver-lined showers
Replenishment against elasticity's incomplete verb
Through whistling meadows of Nature’s morn
Incredulous smiles become born
Again
The muse in my a-muse-ment
Becomes paraphrased, violet-tinted charm
This unadulterated verbiage
Preparing moistened breaths
Into crux of night
Surrendering chain-link grips of consonants & vowels
Releasing her Egyptian cotton tethers
Tonight
On elegant waterfall
Tonight
Her blossomed fingernails
Digging whispered trenches against my back
Will speak louder
Tonight
Than syllabic vice
©Drake J. Eszes